


i don't wanna be your friend

by wretcheddyke



Series: Ficlet/Oneshot Collections [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Tumblr Prompt, one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24494815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wretcheddyke/pseuds/wretcheddyke
Summary: just a collection of any and all T rated and below thasmin prompts i get from tumblr. mostly ficlets/one shotsfind my tumblr at wretcheddyke.tumblr.com
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Series: Ficlet/Oneshot Collections [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813345
Comments: 26
Kudos: 83





	1. "I'm too sober for this." (T)

Yaz watches the bubbles rise in the Doctor’s long island iced tea and pop as they hit the surface. 

“You gonna drink that or just blow bubbles?” 

She lifts her eyes to look at Yaz—pink lips wrapped around her straw—and takes a long sip. “Am pacing. Graham said that was important.” 

“Do Timelords even get drunk? Or are you like Captain America, metabolising it too quick before you get tipsy?” 

They’re on drink number four and Yaz is starting to feel the woozy haze, not helped by the Moroccan sun searing her back as they sit at the poolside bar. 

“Hmmf. We’re way better than you humans.” Her lips are wet and she’s speaking a lot slower than usual. 

“You sure about that?” Yaz giggles. 

“Will admit, I haven’t drank in this body yet though so there’s a possibility I might be a bit of a lightweight.” She slumps forward on the bar, resting her weight on her elbows, heavy head in both hands.

“Hmm. Excuses, excuses.” 

“I’m not making an excuse! I haven’t drank since I blacked out in 1921. Woke up with a blindfold on—which was very confusing, thought I was blind—and handcuffed to a woman named Maureen, who was ever so embarrassed about the whole thing—“ Her gesticulations are floppy and expansive and Yaz thinks she might knock over a glass at any second. 

“Oh god, I’m way too sober for this story,” Yaz waves down the barkeep. 

“Anyway, turns out I’d made a bet with Houdini I could free myself, and Maureen, in under twenty minutes and, well, me being me and Houdini being Houdini, we’d take a shot of moonshine, distilled in one of Houdini’s mates’ basement, every twenty minutes,” 

Yaz lets out a relieved sigh, “Av never been so revealed to hear such a ridiculous story,” 

“Why? What else would I be doin’ handcuffed and blindfolded?” She looks genuinely confused, staring at Yaz and waiting for her to reply—

“I…” 

Before breaking out it to a big, lolling smile that creases her eyes. “Got you there, didn’t I? I’m not that oblivious, Yaz.” 

Yaz rolls her eyes and feels her cheeks flush a bit. Course she knows about weird sex, she’s 2000 years old. “Sorry. Forget you’re so bloody old.” 

“Because I’m so sprightly and fresh-faced?” She grins around her straw.

“Pfft. More like juvenile and chaotic.” Yaz banters back and they both laugh at how true it is. 

“You love it.” She smiles and Yaz’ heart flips in her chest at the unfamiliar look in her eye. 

She works hard a relaxing the ridiculously big smile plaguing her cheeks and takes a sip of her drink to hide her blush. “Alright, don’t let it go to your head. Can’t ‘av you being cocky.” Even if you do have every right to be, she thinks.


	2. “Despite what you think, I am completely capable of taking care of myself.” (T)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (tw: vomiting)

The Doctor’s skull hits the metal floor of the TARDIS with an almighty thunk. Such a visceral sound, it makes Yaz gasp a sharp breath. 

“Doctor!” She can practically feel the pain shooting through her own skull at the sight of the blonde woman splayed on the ground, hair ruffled and groaning. She tries not to be angry at Ryan for not catching her. 

“Mm’kay!” She pushes herself up and Yaz spots the little trickle of sticky bloody running down her face. 

“Stay down,” Yaz crouches beside her and puts a gentle hand on her shoulder to keep her still, “Don’t move so quick.” 

“I promise I’m fine,” She insists, twisting her legs beneath her to sit more comfortably, “Just a spot of low blood pressure, happens all the time, cuppa tea and a biscuit and I’ll be brand new,” 

“Never seen you have low blood pressure before, Doc.” Graham says, half bending to rest his hands on his knees, not committing to a full crouch, “You sure you’re not sick?” 

“Get me a cloth?” Yaz says to Ryan who nods quickly and scarpers. 

“Pfft, I don’t get sick,” The Doctor waves a dismissive hand but there’s something off about her demeanour. Her skin is paled and clammy, a soft sheen of sweat glittering across her brow making her look to be made of porcelain rather than flesh. “My immune system is much—” 

She stops abruptly. The Doctor’s eyes glass over as she stares into the middle distance as if transfixed by a ghost, expression laced with the slight simmerings of fear one might feel when faced with the undead. 

“You’re gonna be sick, aren’t you?” Yaz concludes. The Doctor doesn’t dare open her mouth to respond, having no clue what will be expelled, so Yaz turns to Graham and says, “Get me a bowl!” 

By the goodwill of Fortuna, and probably the Doctor’s unforgiving stubbornness, the tides of Styx—that is, the Doctor’s vomit—stay put until Graham can slide a washing up bowl atop her thighs. 

Yaz braces as the Doctor heaves into the bowl, holding back sweaty strands of blonde hair away from her face. It’s so violent she thinks she might throw up an organ, just to be safe. She can sense the boys taking cautious steps backwards as she hurls and for some odd reason it gets under her skin. 

The strangled gasp she takes when finally, finally, all is expelled is endless and sounds panicked as if she feared her body would never let her take another breath. She pants with her head hung over the bowl, spit dripping from her mouth, and Yaz rubs gentle circles across her back, “Shhh…” She says, “Just breathe.” 

“I’m fine,” Her voice is so raw and when she looks up her eyes are tearful from the strain. Yaz feels her heart ache in her chest at the sight. 

“I know you are,” She says, passing the alarmingly full bowl off to an even more alarmed Graham, “Let me just get you cleaned up, yeah?” 

Ryan quickly passes her the cloth he’d been holding on the sidelines, dances a bit on the spot and then scurries off after Graham. 

She wipes away the little smudge of blood on her temple, folds the cloth and then wipes the corners of the Doctor’s mouth. She holds her chin to keep her still and as she works, running soothing sweeps of the cotton about her face, she can feel the Doctor start to share some of the weight of her head. She’s like a feral cat gradually being tamed into a petting. Yaz brushes away a stray tear with her thumb.

“I’m not cryin’,” It’s so quiet, Yaz hardly catches it. 

“I know,” She looks into deep hazel eyes and sees something she’s never spotted in the Doctor before, something she can’t quite place, “Let’s get you to bed.” 

“I’m fine,” She insists again, shaking her head but letting Yaz help her stand nonetheless. Her clammy hands grab onto the console as soon as it’s in arms reach, always choosing her ship over human contact, “Like I said, cuppa and a biscuit—”

“Doctor,” It’s in her police voice, a little sterner than she perhaps intended and never a tone she’s been bold enough to use on the Doctor before. 

“Despite what you think,” She starts angrily but her eyes blink a few times as she falters, “I am completely capable… of taking care of myself.” The words are lost to breathlessness along with the spirit of her argument as her blood pressure drops again and her vision clouds. Yaz is there to catch her this time and she sinks her body into her side when Yaz snakes an arm around her waist. 

“Completely capable,” She agrees, trying to ignore the feeling of the Doctor’s feverous forehead pressed against her neck. It sears into her skin and fills that desperate need she always feels around the Doctor. The need to make her tangible, to make her believable. 

“Just… maybe a quick nap,” She whispers and her breath tickles Yaz’ clavicle, causing her stomach to somersault. 

“Yeah, just a quick one,” Yaz replies, mimicking her faux air of casualness while she practically carries the Doctor off towards the TARDIS corridor.


	3. "Why are you so jealous?" (T)

Yaz is pretty certain the Doctor finds her attractive. She knows it’s a risky assumption. She knows she’s balanced precariously on that razor’s edge between happiness and destruction; tempting fate to push her left with each lingering touch. She knows she should stop with the flirting and the teasing and the innuendos. 

But fuck. The Doctor looks so cute when her words get jumbled and her cheeks flush whenever Yaz gets close. The rapid beating in Yaz’ chest whenever she manages to draw an embarrassed smile out of her and a little mischievous glitter in her eye is a drug far too compelling. And honestly, there’s some kind of safety in wanting the Doctor. That elusive woman who fell to Earth, so unknowable and strange. The Doctor doesn’t love you back, not when you’re just a girl from Sheffield, so really what’s the harm? Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.

So when a bit of lint lands in the Doctor’s hair, catching the light under the soft bulbs of this underground jazz club, Yaz leans in close to brush it away. “Can’t have you looking scruffy in a place this fancy,” she explains. Ironic, when the surrounding cohorts are made up of tatty-haired humanoids. “Even if I do like you unkempt,” she adds, implication resting heavily in the air.

The Doctor’s hazel eyes drip with panicked desire at their proximity. “Yeah,” she croaks, “can’t have that,” and gives a nervous laugh.

They’re interrupted when a waiter carrying a single martini on a tray appears. “From the lady at the bar, Madame,” he places the drink in front of Yaz and gestures to a Soliphynx across the room, spinning on her chair and straightening her whiskers with the back of her paw. 

“Oh,” Yaz isn’t quite sure how to respond to the gesture but picks up the glass and sends the cat-lady a cheers across the room before taking a sip, “thanks.”

The Doctor frowns a turns to get a look at Yaz’ potential suitor. “You’re only s’posed to accept it if you like them back,” she grumbles. 

“Maybe a do,” Yaz grins as she takes another sip—is that orange flavour? “I’ve always found claws attractive on a woman.”

The Doctor does another take at the feline, inspecting her nails—which in all honestly are quite glamorous, painted gold to complement her tufty fur—Yaz can’t help laughing. 

“Why y’so jealous?” She covers her mouth to stifle the laugher at the Doctor’s annoyance. 

“I’m not jealous!” She fronts. “I think you’d make a lovely pair, I just hope you don’t mind being groomed while you sleep.” 

Yaz cackles out loud at that, “I could make so many jokes right now.” The Doctor can’t help but laugh along with her and it fills Yaz’ heart to see her smiling. “Not sure she’s my type really. Think I prefer mine a bit more human-looking,” she leans in close to emphasise her next point, “not that I’m against cross-species relations.” 

The Doctor’s throat bobs as she gives a dry swallow and blushes but the smile is still there as is that mischievous glint in her eyes.


	4. "Is that my shirt?" (T)

Yaz wakes with a start. The quick intake of breath to her lungs and the jolt of epinephrine in her blood has her sitting on the edge of the bed in an instant. She’d dreamt of lizard man—blue skin and grey eyes with three spikes on his head—suddenly jumping at her, laughing with glee. Weird. But these days it wasn’t unbelievable. 

The cool metal of the TARDIS floor on her feet is welcomed and refreshing as she wanders down the corridor, plodding along in her sleep-shorts and an oversize t-shirt. The ship hums about her and it gives the impression of a sleeping giant, taking the night hours to pause like the rest of her fam. 

Before long she finds herself entering the console room. How did I end up here? She thinks, positive she took the right turn, not the left. 

“Ow!” The exclamation draws her attention to a flash below the floor, in the belly of the ship, gold sparks dancing and dying in the air. “If I can just rewire the gyroscopic stabiliser I—Ow!” Another fleet of a glitter.

“Y’alright there, Doctor?” Yaz smiles down through the manhole in the floor, sleep still present in her voice, eyes still groggy. 

“Yaz! What are you doin’ up? Did I wake you? You really should be sleeping, you humans get right muzzy without your eight hours, I’d know, once had to spend a week with two humans on a planet with no beds,” she pulls the welding goggles off her head, “complete nightmare—Well, not a nightmare, a daymare.”

“I’m fine, Doctor. You didn’t wake me,” she blinks the sleep from her eyes to take in the sight before her. “Is that my shirt?”

The Doctor has her blue culottes on, mustard suspenders swaying at her sides, but her usual shirts are replaced by a vintage ringer tee with a worn-out Pepsi logo in the front. She looks like she’s just arrived back from the 90s. 

“Oh,” she looks down at the tee, “I found it in corridor, must’ve fallen out your washing. I were gonna give it right back, I promise, I just…um—”

“Fancied a fashion show?” Yaz grins at the Doctor who fumbles her words and gives a little sheepish smile and shrug. “Haven’t seen that one in ages, when did y’find it?”

“Hmm two…” she trails off, twisting the hem between her fingers, finally finishing her sentence when Yaz cocks an eyebrow, “…months ago?” 

Yaz’ eyebrows shoot up. “You’ve been wearing my top for two months?” She climbs down into the small space under the console. It’s warm and cramped and she’s suddenly a lot closer to the Doctor than she anticipated. Everything is gold in here, honeyed under the TARDIS light.

“Sorry,” she says, scrunching up her face, “it just… your perfume must’ve been on it and, well—” She looks so cute like this, talking herself into a hole, all awkward with her hair ruffled and in Yaz’ clothes. It sends a little pang through Yaz’ chest and she fights the smile that threatens to ruin her stern grilling. 

“I don’t wear perfume,” Yaz points out, taking a step closer and backing the Doctor up into a beam. 

“Oh… well,” her eyes flick up and around, avoiding eye contact, “I guess it just… it smells like you,” her voice goes quiet and shy.

Yaz is almost breathless at the confession. Her heart races and breaks and twists at the thought of the Doctor missing her while she sleeps, drawing the cotton up to face whenever she breaks from her work just to feel Yaz’ presence. “Look at me, Doctor,” she whispers. 

Her eyes finally leave the ceiling to meet Yaz’, shamefaced but wide-eyed and glittering in the low lights. They’re so close, faces inches apart, the warmth of the central crystal prickling their skin. When her eyes drop to Yaz’ lips for a fraction of a second, Yaz’ quits hesitating. 

The last thing she sees before she closes her eyes are brown eyelashes crowning hazel irises. Then her mouth is on the Doctor’s and she’s kissing her and it feels like she’s been kissing her for her whole life. Her hands feel the familiar soft cotton, press into the soft skin and flesh beneath and then the hard ribs beneath that. She sighs when the Doctor’s tongue pushes into her mouth, ever the explorer, and runs across her teeth. She smells like motor oil and sweat and Yaz. She smells like me.

She’s breathless when they finally pull back, lips wet and swollen, eyes darker. With the Doctor still in her arms, she leans back to look at the shirt. “Think it suits you better than me anyway,” she teases.


	5. This Body (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The Doctor is feeling self conscious. Yaz comforts her, and revives her self worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (tw: body image stuff)
> 
> (notes: wasn’t sure how to handle this so this might not be what you wanted at all/sorry if its really watered down. if anyone else wants to give this prompt ago please feel free!! i quite enjoyed it even though i was out my depth. thanks anon!)

“It were fresh on last week!” 

“Doctor… it’s covered in motor oil! As much as I like you scruffy, I think my parents would prefer you at least clean,” Yaz laughs as she perches on the foot on the bed, “c’mon, off with it.” 

“Fine… don’t stare,” the Doctor mumbles under her breath, so quiet, Yaz doesn’t pick up on it at first. 

“Why? Am I being rude?” She smirks. Her eyes drift unashamedly over the Doctor’s body as she pulls the cotton fabric off over her head, mussing blonde hair. 

“I’m serious,” she says, holding the top to her chest as if to cover herself. She puffs out an awkward laugh but there’s a look in her eye that lets Yaz know she really is serious. 

“Since when?” Yaz frowns and waits for a response but the Doctor just looks at her a little sheepishly. She leans forward and grabs the woman by her belt-loops, drawing her in to stand between her knees. “What’s going on?” 

The Doctor fiddles with the t-shirt in her hands, the only thing keeping them apart, “I dunno. It’s like… the longer I spend in this body the more things a notice that aren’t right with it.” 

Yaz gives her hips a squeeze as she links her fingers behind them, encouraging her to keep going. 

“I know it’s stupid and there’s so many other things to think about, I just… I don’t think I ever felt like this when I were a man. Well, one time, but now when I look back I don’t know why, everyone thought I were good looking. Bit ear-y but—“

“Doctor.”

“Right, sorry. I dunno. Everyday I’m confronted with what people think I should look like and I don’t know if they’re wrong or I am. And then I see you and you’re so… athletic and strong and beautiful so I think I must be able, or should be able, to be like that but I’m not. I can’t really control how I regenerate but sometimes I think I might’ve done it wrong.” 

“Look at me, Doctor,” hazel eyes finally meet hers and they’re full of worry, “they’re wrong.” 

“But—“

“Can I take this?” She asks, placing a gentle hand on the shirt between them. 

The Doctor nods but refuses to look down at her body when she’s stood in just her bra, as if scared the sight might wound her. 

“This body…” Yaz leans away to observe her and feels the Doctor’s fingers clamp around her forearms in resistance. “This body is so beautiful. This body shielded me from a bomb, from the Skithra, from Dregs, and bloody Tim Shaw—honestly you really should stop doin’ that,” she smiles, “cause I love this body and I really don’t wanna see anything bad happen to it.” 

The Doctor frowns like she can’t make sense of the evidence presented before her, lips curled in contemplation. 

Yaz leans forward and pushes a kiss into her sternum, planted right between her beating hearts. “I’d love you in any body, Doctor. I know I never met the rest but I still know this’d be my favourite,” her hands slide up the soft flesh on her back as she kisses up to her clavicle, “I wanna memorise all of you; how you feel; how you move; how you taste. I just… love your body. Conceptually and actually.” She pulls away from the soft skin of her neck to see a soft smile playing at the corners of her mouth. 

“Taste?” The Doctor cocks a suggestive eyebrow. 

“Shut up,” Yaz rolls her eyes, “that were proper poetic as well,” but she can’t help laughing.

“I’m sorry,” the Doctor brushes the loose baby hairs that tickle at Yaz’ forehead and cups her face. “Thank you.” 

“Hey, if it means I get you in me arms like this I’ll do this anytime,” she gives her a squeeze and then it’s the Doctor’s turn to roll her eyes, “c’mere.” 

She kisses her sweetly like petalled lips have the power to heal. And maybe they do.


	6. Promise (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Yaz gets hurt while they’re trying to resolve something, and they’re stuck far from the TARDIS and there’s nobody around willing to help them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: this is a bit sad (sorry!)

The only thing Yaz can see are the gentle footsteps of the Sloreens. They glide across the surface of their planet, content is silent meditation. Their hands—claws?—crossed over their bodies, always in reflective worship of their deity. It’s peaceful. Beautiful. Even as Yaz dies at their feet. 

“Will one of you please help me?!” The Doctor’s cries barely break through the muffling the poison has caused. There’s something in her mouth or… something coming from her mouth. Am I foaming at the mouth? The more she spits the more there is, it feels like drowning painfully slowly. She’s losing her grip on reality, on life. Her body hurts. Her head is thrown back awkwardly as the muscles in her neck contract. Is someone pulling my hair? She knows she should hold on—stay awake, stay awake—but the looming black cloud brings with it comfort. 

She feels spindly arms under her back and knees, surprisingly strong, and then she’s being lifted from the ground. The sky is upside down—no, her head hangs heavy off the Doctor’s arm. The sky is bright white, smudged with the tears in her eyes. “Where…”

“TARDIS. Stay awake, Yaz.” She looks scared. Really scared. “Stay with me. Promise me.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Yaz whispers, drool running up the side of her face, “I promise.” And then she disappears. 

.

She can hear running water and feel a cold breeze on her face when she wakes. As the sleep disappears from her body and her muscles tense, each one of them tears. Ouch. “Doctor?” She tries to call out but it’s barely a croak. The movement of her face causes the dried spit to crack and itch. 

“Yaz! You’re up!” She beams, oddly cheerful in comparison to the last time she saw her. 

“It hurts,” she whispers and it comes out a lot more emotional than she intended. 

“Yeah, it will do.” A warm palm rests on her forehead and the Doctor peers over her, looking into her eyes. “The poison… you basically had a seizure. Your muscles’ll be sore for a while.” 

“Where are we?” She turns her head with a great deal of pain to take in their surroundings. She’s under a makeshift pile of sticks, stacked up around a tree branch and covered in over-grown ferns. She can feel the Doctor’s coat wrapped around her bare legs. The smell of smoke filters in with the breeze.

“Couldn’t get to the TARDIS. Thought we’d do a bit of camping.” She smiles and picks at a leaf between her fingers. 

“You made a stick fort around me?” Yaz smiles lazily. 

“It were quite fun, actually. I’ve not made a good stick fort in at least 300 years. And the ferns on this planet are remarkable! Size of my leg!” 

Yaz feels a little pang of gratitude in her chest at the Doctor’s enthusiasm, even if it does feel at odds with her current predicament. She shifts a little on the ground, testing the waters of how much movement she can get away with when a stick pricks her hip. “Am I naked?” She suddenly asks, attempting to lift her head but immediately regretting it. 

“Oh, yeah… the seizure. You… Well, I had to take your trousers. I washed them in the river, they’ve been drying on the fire. Probably didn’t think dunking denim in the river through… they might still be a bit damp.” 

Yaz zones out a bit as the Doctor talks, embarrassment curling in her gut. “That’s… embarrassing. Thank you, though. For lookin’ after me.”

“I don’t think the Sloreens minded. They don’t mind anything, really. It’s kind of their thing.” 

“I weren’t worried about the space monks,” she sighs with a shy laugh. 

The Doctor stops fiddling with her leaf and moves from her knees to sit crosslegged next to Yaz’s head. “Should I not have? I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. I didn’t look or—”

“Doctor. It’s fine, I promise.” She gives arm movement a go and takes her hand. “Can you get me something to wash my face?” 

Her eyes light up at being given an easy task and she scurries out from their nest for a moment. When she returns, she settles back behind Yaz’s head and begins wiping a cloth, wet from the river, around her face. She methodically traces the bones of her skull, up her jaw, her cheekbones, her forehead. “You have a nice face,” she observes wistfully, studying every inch. 

Yaz studies her right back: her dedicated precision, her focus, the line between her brows, the way her hair falls around her face as she leans over. For a second, she’s convinced the Doctor is about to kiss her. 

“It must have been scary,” she whispers. “When none of them helped you. You must’ve felt really alone.” 

The Doctor looks taken aback by Yaz’s words and the pulls away a half-inch. “Yeah, s’ppose,” she says casually, avoiding Yaz’s eyes. 

“You’re good at that.”

“What?” 

“Not feeling things all the way.”

Her smile falters and she pauses for a very long moment. She discards the cloth but doesn’t move, elbows resting on her crossed legs. “Thousands of years of life, Yaz. I’ve defeated creatures that feed on stories with all those memories, broke out the Timelord’s matrix with it. Hate to think what it’d do to little old me if I felt things all the way.” 

“So y’made your own emotion inhibitor?” 

Something flashes in her eyes that Yaz can’t place. Pain? Anger? Resentment?

“Don’t compare me to a cyberman,” she snaps and pulls away. Anger bubbles below the surface; always bubbling, never boiling over. 

“I’m not,” Yaz insists. “Y’told me about the soldier, the PE teacher? How it were too much for him, to feel all that pain. How he still did right by Earth even when he couldn’t feel how much he loved it. Because he were good.” She reaches up despite the fizzing pain in her tendons to tuck a strand of hair behind the Doctor’s ear; it’s difficult upside down and she only manages with help. “I just mean… I get it.” 

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just lets her fingertips smooth out Yaz’s eyebrows. “He were a maths teacher,” she says finally and her voice cracks and she coughs. “He was a good man.” 

“So are you,” Yaz says right back. “Y’don’t have to feel everything for me to know that. I don’t mind… that you’re cold sometimes.” 

Her fingertips glide down her temples, across her cheeks and then across her lips. It makes Yaz shudder. “I don’t want to be,” she murmurs so quietly Yaz is relieved it wasn’t swallowed up by the breeze. “But y’said you’d stay and you didn’t.” 

Yaz is hit with a twinge of guilt. The fingertip probes at the seam of Yaz’s lips and, for some odd reason, she opens her mouth. She feels it run over her blunt teeth like she’s looking for a wobbly one. 

“One day…” She takes a measured breath like she’s picking her next words carefully, eyes trained on her teeth with laser focus. “…You’re gonna be someone I carry with me. You’re gonna be so heavy.” 

The finger slips from her mouth and a tear rolls down Yaz’s face and finds a home in her ear. “I’m sorry,” she swallows the mucus in the back of her throat.

Her fingers tickle under Yaz’s chin. “You’re out there dying right now, somewhere in time. I might even be with you.” 

Yaz’s chest contracts with an amalgam of fear and dread and sadness and shame. All her focus goes to containing the wail that punches at her chest. 

“I grieve for you all the time… for all of time.” She wipes the tears that leave hot tracks down the sides of Yaz’s face and Yaz wonders how she isn’t crying too. “And the more I love you…”

Yaz gasps as the words slip from her mouth like they’re the hardest and the easiest thing she’s ever said. 

“The more it hurts.” 

“I’ll stay with you. As long as I can,” Yaz croaks and blinks away the tears. “But promise me—Promise me you’ll stay with me,” Yaz fights her trembling lip and the tear that tickles her ear canal. “And then forget me.” 

“Oh, Yasmin Khan,” the Doctor sighs and wipes her hands across Yaz’s face, smudging away tears and snot and cupping her cheeks. “I never could.” 

She kisses her on the mouth and Yaz cries for the woman who always runs and always remembers.


	7. Thunder (T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Thunder. That’s it. That’s the prompt. Yaz is terrified and The Doctor is the ultimate comforter/snuggler.

Thunder claps; a chiming death knell; a banshee scream; a klaxon blare foretelling the end. Fingernails dig waning crescents into soft skin. Yaz’s breath is as ragged as the churning sea and her heart bats against the confines of her ribs. She’s hot under her sleeping bag, a blanket over her head in a feeble attempt to block out Zeus’s rage. It’s fruitless and she sweats beneath the covers, repeating breaths filling her cave with carbon dioxide. Suffocation appears a gentler death than the merciless bolts of electricity that light up the sky.

Perhaps she’s being dramatic.

She peeks a nose out from the covers into the chilly night, the icy air inside the tent prickling her skin. Fresh oxygen is delicious in her lungs. A flash of light illuminates the opaque walls, catching the rumbled fabric about her and the condensation on the polyester. It’s silent. She counts down to the incoming roar, each breath measured and precise. One, two, three, four, five…

Her muscles contract of their own free will as thunder rattles through her. Five seconds. Divided by five, that’s one mile away. She can deal with one mile. The whole of Sheffield City Centre fits in one mile. A twenty-minute walk. But then, she supposes, clouds move faster than people; they don’t have to navigate the high street; don’t have to decide if going through or around Peace Gardens is quicker. It’s a seven-minute drive from the chippy on St Mary’s Way to the co-op on Tenter Street. That’s about a mile, too. _Fuck_. That’s not far. A seven-minute drive from an untimely death.

“Yaz?” The Doctor’s whisper in the dark interrupts her spiralling thoughts.

“Yeah?” She whispers back.

“Are you okay? I can hear your heart beating. Well, I always can but it’s way faster than usual. For lying down, I mean.”

She can’t feel the breath on her neck for all the blankets but the voices’ close proximity to the back of her head makes her shudder nonetheless. She rolls over, a difficult feat inside a sleeping bag, to face the Doctor. The moonlight just about illuminates the pink tip of her nose and dances in the glossy film of her cornea. She’s just about to brush away the query when the sleepy state of her face and the gentle concern crack open some aspect of her heart. “I’m… I don’t like thunder,” she whispers quickly, quietly, embarrassment curling in her chest.

“Oh,” she whispers with enthusiasm and then halts herself as if she’d just heard the word thunder and forgotten the ‘I don’t like’ in a flurry to an interesting topic. “Y’know lightning is just electrostatic discharge from two areas of the atmosphere temporarily equalising. The visible light is black-body radiation. Like an electric shock but between the clouds and the Earth. And thunder is just a shock wave when gases in the surrounding area of the discharge experience a sudden increase in pressure.”

Yaz isn’t listening to anything she’s saying but the way her lips move around the words is a far better distraction than nails in her palm or measuring the distance of Sheffield. When lightning strikes again, the whole tent illuminates in stark white light and Yaz suddenly realises how big the tent is and how unnecessarily close they are, bunched up in one corner. The Doctor looks up in awe as the light from the electricity fills the space and seemingly suspends that brief second in time, elongating it until it’s firmly scorched into Yaz’s memory.

“Did y’know lightning is almost six times hotter than the sun?” She looks down as the tent plunges back into darkness and then, supposedly upon seeing Yaz’s alarmed expression, backtracks: “Sorry, s’probably not helpin’… The chance of getting hit by lightning is one in every one million, ninety-four thousand, one-hundred and thirty-five. Those are pretty good odds, I’d say.”

Yaz’s smile is interrupted by the belated thunder booming through the atmosphere. She snaps her eyes shut as it rumbles her chest and rattles her bones. “What are you doing?” She whispers when she finally opens her eyes to see the Doctor unzipping her sleeping bag. The cold air is harsh against warm thighs.

“Gettin’ in,” the Doctor response, “oh, you’re warm.”

Yaz gasps when a cool, bare calf hooks itself around hers and tugs her close. The Doctor’s hands find her hips and suddenly yank her closer till they’re flush, front to front. Her face is so close, Yaz wonders if she’s about to be kissed but the Doctor just seems confused about what to do with herleft hand. She settles on tucking it under Yaz’s body, just below her ribs and then gives her a chuffed grin at having solved the puzzle. It’s so endearing, Yaz can’t help the choked little giggle that bubbles from her throat.

“Thank you,” she whispers. Her breath on the Doctor’s chin must tickle because she stares at her lips when she talks. “It’s… I don’t like how big it is. Can’t fight back against the weather.”

“Pfft. I can. Easy. I’d never let it hurt you, Yaz,” she says, voice full of sincerity. Her right-hand sinks under her loose top and around her waist to settle between her shoulder blades. Blunt fingernails scratch the skin on her back. It makes her breath catch in her throat.

“Course you can,” Yaz smiles, relaxing into her arms, “is there anything you can’t do?”

Just then, lightning strikes and thunder follows in quick succession and any dissolved tension is swiftly returned. Yaz claws at the Doctor’s bicep; feels firm muscle and protruding tendons gliding under the skin. She tries to let go but the fear courses through her, unrelenting. It’s never-ending as the thunder crackles above them.

In the darkness, the Doctor rolls them both until Yaz is flat on her back against the ground, bundles of blankets coming with them. The Doctor lays flush atop her, the weight of her hips and belly and chest pushing her firm into the mossy Earth. It just about breaks Yaz from fears’ clutches and she releases her talons. “Hi,” she whispers, slightly starstruck at the woman now hovering above her.

“Hi. Sorry. Compression is supposed to relax the sympathetic nervous system. Also, you have very strong hands.”

“What?”

“Your hand on my arm. Thought you were gonna cut my circulation off. Can’t afford to lose another arm. Had to think fast.”

“Oh,” Yaz glances down to the mark her grip’s left and gently strokes it with her thumb. “Sorry,” she winces.

As a consequence of their pivot, Yaz’s shirt’s ridden up to expose soft brown skin. The Doctor suddenly frowns at where Yaz’s warm stomach touches her cooler one. “Is this okay?”

Yaz can’t help but grin at her delayed concern over personal boundaries. “Yeah. It’s nice,” she admits and the Doctor’s face lights up at the admission. She does her best to hide the butterflies dancing in her stomach and wonders briefly if the Doctor can feel them too, her being so close. Hair falls around her face and tickles her cheeks. 

“I feel like I should kiss you now,” the Doctor whispers plainly. Her eyes scanning every detail of Yaz’s expression.

If she could hear her heartbeat earlier, it must be deafening now. Yaz feels it thudding in her chest as she tries to comprehend what the Doctor just said. “Do you wanna kiss me?” Yaz asks, slow and measured, trying not to let on the euphoric anticipation that threatens to leap from her throat.

“I wanna kiss you a lot. I just never seem to be close enough. Not sure how people ever end up close enough to kiss.”

“I think usually they just go for it. Or ask.” Yaz wonders how she’s keeping such a neutral tone with the knowledge the Doctor thinks about kissing her bouncing around her skull.

She scrunches her face. “Seems a bit awkward if you ask me.”

“Y’wanna give it a go?”

“Okay,” the Doctor nods and then she’s pushing her mouth against Yaz’s. She gets the corner of her mouth at first but quickly readjusts. Their lips fit together like jigsaw pieces, soft and cushioned and dry. Then the Doctor’s tongue slides across her bottom lip and Yaz opens her mouth. She squirms when their tongues touch and their teeth clash accidentally and then she’s very aware of all the places their bodies touch.

The next zap comes and goes and the thunder rolls in too but it’s nothing compared to the rumbling in the Doctor’s chest. The deep moan that reverberates into Yaz’s mouth sends a shudder down her spine. “Did you know,” the Doctor suddenly starts talking again before she’s really pulled away from the kiss, “volcanic eruptions cause lightning strikes when the plumes of ash create an electrical charge. All that molten lava and bolts of lightning hotter than the sun,” she looks gleeful as her breath tickles Yaz’s lips, “that’s what kissing you feels like.”


	8. Monopoly

The dice dances across the board in an eloquent pirouette.

“If I’m going to jail _again_ I’m not playing anymore,” Graham says. He’s not having the best run and his left eye is covered with an ice pack from when Ryan’s roll went slightly haywire, the dice bouncing right off Yaz mug and into his eyeball.

The Doctor leans across the coffee table to see what he’s landed on, her face scrunching up apologetically when she sees its face. “Two.”

“Ha!” Yaz beams, slapping the old shoe back to its cell.

“You’re having me on!”

“Sorry Graham,” the Doctor says but she can’t keep the grin off her face.

Yaz blows on the dice for luck and then sends it scattering across the board. _Please not 3, please not 3, please…_

“Three,” Ryan says plainly as he picks up the little white dice off the floor, totally unaware of the travesty he’s just unleashed.

“Yes!!”

“No! That doesn’t count, it were on the floor!”

“And? Dice goes on the floor all the time, course it counts!” The Doctor fights back, clearly already having done the same calculation as Yaz. Three steps take her to Piccadilly, right where the Doctor’s hotel resides. She reaches out across the table, condescendingly jumping Yaz’s dog three steps forward. “That’ll be £108 please!”

Rage bubbles in her chest. “I know you cheated earlier when Ryan weren’t paying attention.”

“What?” Ryan whips his head around.

“No I wasn’t!! Careful who you’re accusing, Yaz, I see you chose to sit right by the banker,” she says, cocking her eyebrow at her chair next to Graham’s.

“Alright, you two—“

“Just wait ‘til you go through Mayfair,” Yaz snaps, filing through her notes to collect the right amount. “I own that whole street, you’ll be done for!”

“Pfft! You wish,” she says, smugly picking up the notes Yaz has thrown across the board.

“Don’t get cocky, Doctor. Land on Park Lane once and I’ll bloody bankrupt you,” she menaces, leaning over the table on her elbows.

“Don’t threaten me,” the Doctor says coldly, eyes narrowing at Yaz. “I own all the utilities on this board, land on one a them and I’ll absolutely rail you.”

It takes Yaz a few seconds to comprehend what she just said. _Wait, what?_ Ryan catches her eye across the table and he looks just as confused as she feels, a frown covering his face before he collapses with laughter.

“Doctor!” Yaz scolds, unable to stop the laughter springing from her throat.

“What?” The Doctor frowns, looking between them all laughing.

“Y’gonna rail me?” She can’t keep the blush from her cheeks when she asks.

“Does that… not mean what I think it means?” Her face scrunches up a bit with embarrassment as she searches for clarity.

“Unless y’thinking about shagging Yaz, nope, definitely not,” Ryan cackles, sliding down his chair.

“Alright, enough of that,” Graham interjects, at least attempting to put a stop to the crass language. 

“Oh,” the Doctor cringes. “Sorry, Yaz.”

“It’s fine,” she says, wiping the laughter from her eye. “Just weren’t expecting it. Maybe tell me y’gonna rail me in private next time.”

“Oh my days,” Ryan groans, shaking his head at Yaz’s awful flirting.

She can’t even be embarrassed, not when the Doctor is blushing and fiddling with the community chest card in her hands, trying her best to hide the massive smile on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lowkey missed doing ficlets lol, something tells me whumptober isn't gonna be this fun


End file.
